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I hope nobody ever asks me what inspires me. Because that’s a stupid fucking question.
There’s no answer to it. Nothing inspires me. Because it doesn’t take inspiration to create, to
live, to destroy, to do. Anything and everything you want to bring into fruition is already
within you. And it’s not a matter of calling it forth or waiting for something to sail into your life
to open the doors of possibility. It’s a matter of being confident enough to just put what you
need to into words, pictures, notes, or handshakes. A sturdy handshake is just as beautiful
as piano concerto.
If it was a matter of inspiration, we’d all be sitting with our heads out the window waiting for
signs that we were supposed to begin. We were born! Begin! The only inspiration should be
the fact that your stupid, fat heart is beating.
"I WANT NOTHING MORE, THAN TO SEE YOU
EVERYDAY AND TALK TO YOU, TO SEE YOU
SMILE, TO HEAR YOUR LAUGHTER, TO HEAR
YOUR VOICE, AND FEEL THE WARMTH OF ME
BEING WITH YOU."